Wednesday, June 13, 2007

on level water

There's something in the Clyde, the river.I belong there--we all do--tenderlyDrifting towards the edge.

We all belong on that riverIn one way or other, inSome nook or cranny.We're all on the same level there.That's because water levels off.It's always harmonically level.

How it happens is this:When you're sitting on a boat on the Clyde,You're at eye level with all of life in those parts--The bugs buzz buzzing around your head,The baby deer tip-toeing at water's edge,Pausing, looking, ever-still.Even fish are close enough to see.

Please note: it has to be a quiet boat, like a canoe.No motors will do on this river.

Rider, driver, whatever. There's no us or them.We're all the same here,All together drifting down in chorus with the current pull,The hull, sometimes swimming in whirlpools,Fishing in and out of sunspots and shadows,Sometimes still--Quiet as a hushed breeze in midair.

I know, this is where I belong on those daysWhen I hear the level dissent in syncopated rhythm,When I can't see eye to eye,When the deer sees me and runs away in fear.

I just need the river to be here.To pull me in legato moodTo the nearest quiet pool of water,So I can sit and ponderMy place here on this river.